A member of police, for whom The county found a nag, And, like Acteon in the tale, He found himself in stag! Away they went then, dog and deer, And hunters all away,-- The maddest horses never knew _Mad staggers_ such as they! Some gave a shout, some rolled about, And anticked as they rode, And butchers whistled on their curs, And milkmen _tally-hoed_. About two score there were, not more, That galloped in the race; The rest, alas! lay on the grass, As once in Chevy Chase! But even those that galloped on Were fewer every minute,-- The field kept getting more select, Each thicket served to thin it. For some pulled up, and left the hunt, Some fell in miry bogs, And vainly rose and "ran a muck," To overtake the dogs. And some, in charging hurdle stakes, Were left bereft of sense-- What else could be premised of blades That never learned to fence? But Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate, Nor hedge, nor ditch, could stay; O'er all they went, and did the work Of leap years in a day. And by their side see Huggins ride, As fast as he could speed; For, like Mazeppa, he was quite At mercy of his steed. No means he had, by timely check, The gallop to remit, For firm and fast, between his teeth, The biter held the bit. Trees raced along, all Essex fled Beneath him as he sate,-- He never saw a county go At such a county rate! "Hold hard! hold hard! you'll lame the dogs," Quoth Huggins, "So I do,-- I've got the saddle well in hand, And hold as hard as you!" Good Lord! to see him ride along, And throw his arms about, As if with stitches in the side, That he was drawing out! And now he bounded up and down, Now like a jelly shook: Till bumped and galled--yet not where Gall For bumps did ever look! And rowing with his legs the while, As tars are apt to ride, With every kick he gave a prick, Deep in the horse's side! But soon the horse was well avenged For cruel smart of spurs, For, riding through a moor, he pitched His master in a furze! Where sharper set than hunger is He squatted all forlorn; And like a bird was singing out While sitting on a thorn! Right glad was he, as well might be, Such cushion to resign: "Possession is nine points," but his Seemed more than ninety-nine. Yet worse than all the prickly points That entered in his skin, His nag was running off the while The thorns were running in! Now had a Papist seen his sport, Thus laid upon the shelf, Altho' no horse he had to cross, He might have crossed himself. Yet surely still the wind is ill That none can say is fair; A jolly wight there was, that rode Upon a sorry mare! A sorry mare, that surely came Of pagan blood and bone; For down upon her knees she went To many a stock and stone! Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift, This farmer, shrewd and sage, Resolved, by changing horses here, To hunt another stage!